Justice?
Justice is something everyone talks about. Politicians promise it to
win votes. Teachers preach it in classrooms, and preachers shout
about it from pulpits in churches and mosques.
Parents speak of fairness and kindness at home. But does justice truly exist?
A father, who stabs the belly of a baby animal to feed his children —
and that same night, speaks proudly of humanity and morals.
In a world where some have so much food they throw leftovers away without care, while hundreds of millions elsewhere sleep through hunger, not dreams... In a world where killing a cockroach is bravery,
but stepping on a butterfly is a crime. In a
world where a face and a bank account define a person's worth — talking about justice is nothing but a cruel joke. No, worse — an insult to reason.
Justice? Perhaps it's just a word that lives on paper — Not in the dusty alleys of life, not in weary
hearts, not in waiting eyes. We keep
repeating it, only to feel a little less guilty.
Me? Maybe I have no right to speak of justice.
But that no longer matters.
My name is Ranji — and this is the story of everything that happened before I met the god called Perodox.
Before he raised me from the ashes of my own ending.
My father was an addict… always high. When he found out my
mother was pregnant, he wasn't happy — on the contrary, he suggested an abortion.
But it was too late.
I was already there — three months old in her belly.
And my mother… a broken woman herself, often lost in alcohol and drugs.
She was severely overweight, her mind clouded — she didn't even realize
she was pregnant until it was too late. They had no money for an illegal
abortion.
And my father — like every coward — ran away. He
left her alone… with me.
It was a cold, dark winter night.
My mother was staying with her own mother, in a small, old house on the edge of the city Suddenly, pain gripped her.
Her hands dug into the sofa she sat on.
"What's wrong, Silvia?" my grandmother called from the kitchen.
"I think… he's coming!" my mother gasped.
"The baby? Now?!"
"Yes, damn it! It hurts so much… I can't take it anymore!"
My grandmother looked around in panic.
"We have no car… no hospital nearby… it's the middle of the night…"
It was one of those nights — cold, dark, wind-blown — where even the
moon hides behind thick clouds.
She ran out, banged on the neighbor's door — an Old, retired midwife.
The woman didn't hesitate.
She rushed over with a bag full of old but useful tools.
"Quick! Lay her on the sofa! Bring
warm water and clean towels!"
My grandmother obeyed. My
mother was drenched in sweat, her
breath came in bursts, her hair
stuck to her face. She screamed.
For hours. And finally, after one long, final scream — I was there.
With trembling hands, the midwife dipped a cloth in warm water,
gently laid it over my face, and began to
clean me — silently, almost reverently.
Everyone was so exhausted and relieved
that they missed the obvious:
I didn't cry.
Not a sound, no weeping.
Only my dark eyes, quietly staring at their faces.
The midwife frowned.
"He's not crying… we should take him to a doctor. Who Knows what's wrong."
My mother sat up, breathing heavily. "I should be the one going to a doctor. I'm the one who
suffered for hours — not him."
"I understand," said the midwife gently, "but
this isn't normal."
"He's my son.
And I decide what happens to him."
The midwife looked questioningly at my grandmother. She
gently shook her head — it meant: Let it go.
My mother said,
"Give him milk from the fridge. But
get him out of my sight…"
My grandmother tried to protest:
"But it's your child… you should feed him, hold him…"
And my mother — screaming, full of rage and collapse — shouted: "I
said get him out of my sight!"
A month passed since I was born — thirty days in which my mother
had neither fed me nor once held me.
The house was rarely quiet:
Almost daily, angry, bitter arguments echoed through the walls
between her and my grandmother, fueled by the constant stench of alcohol clinging to my mother. But that day, a disturbing calm filled everything.
Only the monotone whistle of the old metal kettle broke the silence —
like the breath of a demon announcing itself.
Outside, dusk descended like a leaden curtain over the world,
and winter's chill crept into every corner. And then — a scream. Not the usual kind, but a soul-piercing cry, born of
hunger and despair.
From another room, my mother shouted in a broken voice:
"Shut up… just shut the hell up… It's
all your fault!
He left me — because of you…
We were happy… we had each other… until you came…"
Her sobs didn't sound like pain — they
sounded like poison, like madness. I
heard her steps growing louder, closer.
Then she stood above me — in one hand, the kettle filled with boiling water, in her eyes — nothing but darkness.
Softly, almost lovingly, she whispered:
"It's all… all your fault.
You destroyed my life. We were happy.
Without you, everything would've been different."
A strange, chilling smile crept across her lips.
She clenched her teeth.
Her voice turned into a curse:
"Why only me?
Why always me? Why am I the only
one who cries…? You should cry too.
You should suffer too."
And then — she poured the boiling water
over my face.
My skin hissed.
The air filled with the scent of burning flesh.
I screamed — but my voice was silent, like in a nightmare. No tears left my eyes.
She screamed:
"Cry! Cry!
Why aren't you crying?!"
And I —
with burning flesh, a blistered face —
sank into the darkness of unconsciousness.
Fifteen minutes later… The
door slowly opened.
Grandmother stepped in —
and all was still.
She saw my mother — collapsed by the door, the kettle in her hand like a trophy of madness.
Her lips trembled.
Her eyes stared blankly at the floor. She
whispered:
"Why only me…?
Why doesn't he suffer…? Why…
not him…?"
Hesitantly, with heavy steps,
Grandmother walked forward.
"Silvia…? My love… what's happened? Where is Ranji?"
A single glance into the cradle was enough.
Her knees gave out. The floor
beneath her was wet — water…
blood.
The white cradle, soaked in red. And I ....
a small, burned creature, skin peeled
from heat, face disfigured, eyes halfopen, staring into emptiness.
A scream — so shrill even the shadows froze.
She collapsed.
Her hands trembled.
Then… she vomited.
Tears streaming down her face, face smeared
with what was left of her sickness, she crawled
to the cradle. With shaking hands, she
placed her ear to my chest.
Seconds passed — nothing.
Then: a faint beat. A heart refusing to give up.
With blood-smeared hands,
she grabbed the phone. Tears
ran down her cheeks as she
whispered: "Hello? Please… please come quickly…
The baby… he's dying…
Help… I'm begging you…"
The snow kept falling — softly, relentlessly — as if the sky itself was mourning a newborn
child swallowed by ash. The sound of sirens, like death knells, echoed through the frozen alleys. But it wasn't just a death — it was the beginning of pain.
Doctors, their faces frozen and hands all too familiar with the border between life and death, stepped inside. The stench of burnt flesh and blood — like a hymn from hell — filled the air.
My small body, like a fragment of the night, lay motionless in my grandmother's arms.
Half-opened eyes — as if still struggling to hold on to life.
They say it was a miracle.
But I only remember the wailing of the siren… and the red-and-blue lights dancing across the shattered walls of our house.
I was a piece of living, burnt flesh in the hands of strangers, shouting: "His
blood pressure's dropping! Faster!"
They took me — From a house that reeked of death
To a hospital that stank of medicine and vomit.
Onto a cold bed, beneath merciless light. Oxygen mask.
Needles in my veins.
A nurse with tears in her eyes who didn't dare to ask,
"Who did this to you?"
The sound of slicing, stitching, cutting, suturing — it was all like a dark dream. But waking up was worse.
When I first opened my eyes, there was no one.
Only a white ceiling — and a cursed silence, worse than any scream.
They say my survival was a miracle...
But even then, I understood:
It was hell itself that refused to let me go.
It held me — because it still had plans for me.
Days passed. Nurses came and went, their gazes lingering on my burned face, but their
lips said nothing.
Doctors wrote and left, unaware of how much pain could live behind such small eyes.
My eyes... even I was afraid of them, though I was just a newborn.
There was something in my gaze that didn't belong to me.
Not tears.
Not pleading.
Not even rage.
Only a cold darkness — like the bottom of a well.
People said I had become terrifying.
And they were right.
Because that day, a child didn't die... That day, a cursed one was born.